About a Girl and About a Boy
by iRamble
Summary: Set in season 12, after the end of episode 2 and before the end of episode 3 - Whilst struggling to adjust to and come to terms with what has happened to her, Mary finds Dean's memory box in his room and find photo's, one in particular that makes her ask him about a girl - One-shot.


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Disclaimer: _All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This fanfic is my original work of fiction based on those character/that universe._

 **AN:**

 _*Spoilers*_ Set between season 12/ep.2  & 3\. Spoilers for event/s prior to that.

 _*Acknowledgments*_ : Thank you to everyone who commented on, favourited or followed etc. my other fic, it's been really, really appreciated.

Also, if anyone who manages or works on any of the Supernatural wiki's ever happens to stumbles across this, thank you for what you do, it's hugely appreciated.

Finally, my beta-'listener' has been absent for this, due to spoilers, so all faults, errors etc. etc. are purely my own.

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 **About a Girl… And about a Boy**

Mary sits on the edge of Dean's bed, perched with a nervousness she would have never assumed she'd have around her boys, but one which she's sadly become all too familiar with over the short space of time that she's been back.

She'd heard the shower running, and hopes she isn't intruding as she sits in his room waiting for him, and that thought, that feeling, makes her angry. A mother shouldn't feel like such a stranger around her boys. A mother shouldn't be so ill at ease and nervous.

But then of course, _her_ boys wouldn't make her ill at ease or nervous, because _her_ boys are all of 64 months old, collectively. She's done the math in her head but she still can't get her head around it all the same. These boys, if she can still call them that, are collectively more months than she can do the mental arithmetic for without reaching for the nearest calculator, but that's precisely the point. They're fully grown people, fully grown _men_. God! They seem older to her than she remembers John ever being.

And there's a bristliness about them, about Dean actually, which she doesn't know how to handle. She doesn't know why it's there, whether she's the cause, but of course she suspects she might be. And her own behaviour around them isn't helping, because she just can't come to terms with all this and she suspects they know that. Suspects Dean knows that. Oh he was gentle and tender enough when she first encountered him. Was patient and understanding, filling in blanks from memory, even for things that were before his time, and she was truly amazed by that, at the devotion and love that was so purely evident in him it had pierced right through to her soul. It had been that really, that had focused her and had grounded her, had convinced her enough to quell the sickening panic and alarm that had been rising inside her the instant she'd suddenly found herself there in that park, with the grass beneath her bare feet. Getting ripped out from heaven was a shock to the system, one so extreme, it couldn't have taken anything less than such intense love to convince her that this new environment she'd been thrust into, torn away from John and her boys, wasn't some kind of hell.

And he'd been gentle with her ever since. But she'd seen him in action, she'd seen him switch from that mode to… well, to hunter mode, just like that, and that change is beyond what she had ever seen in _her_ Dean, obviously. Her four year old baby boy Dean. And try as she might, she just can't get the two personas to align, neither in her heart nor in her mind. Her baby boy and this hunter. They're not the same.

She's not sure she wants them to be.

So she feels distant from him despite his efforts, and it makes her feel awful about herself, and she knows that he's astute enough to sense her standoffishness, even though he's doing his best to overlook it. To ignore it, burying his head in the sand, and if he suffocates and drowns because of that, God knows, it'll be her fault.

But she's trying. She's really trying. She's there, in his room, on his bed, waiting for him to emerge, so that she can ask him if he wants breakfast. Ask him if he likes bacon and eggs.

But sitting there, just waiting, procrastinating, it's driving her insane.

So without even thinking really, she reaches for the shoebox beside his bed, just to do something to occupy herself. A keepsake memory box, and as she lifts the lid, she realises she's probably intruding and that feeling makes her angry and sad and nervous all over again.

But it's done now and she peers inside, hoping there's nothing too personal in there.

The stack of photographs catch her eye, and right there at the top it's John, staring back at her. Smiling, and her vision becomes cloudy as her eyes well up.

A world without John.

She can't ever imagine it, even though she's been thrust into it. This world, she realises, it _is_ a kind of hell because of that very fact, and the panic rises as the reality of it hits her again, but she pushes it down, tries not to dwell on it.

Looking at the image, she suddenly remembers with a start that she was the one who took that picture, and the shock of seeing a photo that she remembers as being pristine now suddenly looking so old and tattered and worn in her hands is oddly jarring to her senses.

But still, it's John and she traces the line of his face, his jaw, his cheek. He's young, in the picture, the way she remembers. And Dean's there, three years old if she remembers rightly, a happy content smile on his face, and she can't help but smile at that, at him. At them both. But in that same instant the pain stabs at her chest at the re-realisation that both these people, whom she loves so much, whom she adores and cherishes, both these people who were at one time, not so long ago, almost the entirety of her whole existence, are both now long gone and beyond her reach, probably for ever. One due to death, and the other… well, the other just feels as if he's been torn right out from her arms.

The fact that she's now forced into living in a world in which neither of these people who she loved so much exist anymore, well, how is that not hell?

And just like that, suddenly she can't bear to look at the picture anymore. The pain of all she's lost is just too raw.

So she rifles through the rest of the stack absentmindedly, attention more focused on trying to regain her composure before Dean can walk in and see her like this.

Through her blurred vision she catches glimpses of other people looking back at her, caught and forever frozen in the timeless gaze of the camera lens. Some people she recognises, most she doesn't. There's a man with a beard and a grubby looking cap, and even the graininess of the photo can't hide the kindness of his eyes. And there's a group picture, again with people she doesn't know. The man is there and of course so are Sam and Dean, but there's two women there too. Well, one woman and a younger girl, blonde, very pretty, and she wonders about that. It could almost be a family thanksgiving, but she doesn't recognise the table or the room. It's clearly not the bunker then. And Sam and Dean look younger. Still not young enough to placate her mourning heart, but younger nonetheless.

There's something about the picture though, an unseen heaviness just behind each set of eyes, that tells her she can't really ask about it; she hasn't come anywhere near close enough yet to earning rights for that kind of inclusion and confidence from her boys. The more she stares at the photo, the more uneasy she becomes; it's as though she can sense a last supper sort of vibe going on that makes her uncomfortable, so she moves on from it.

The next one startles a smile onto her face. It's Sam and Dean, again not children, but they seem so happy she can't help respond to the knee-jerk joy it elicits in her. They're not looking at each other, at least Dean isn't looking at Sam, but they're both clearly so connected and in sync, it's like they're the same person.

Sam looks as if caught in the middle of saying something to his brother, a happy carefree laugh in every line and angle of his profile, and all the warmth and love and happiness in that look is directed solely at Dean. She can see in that profile, so clearly, how much Sam adores and admires his brother. That closeness, that love, it radiates from the photo, radiates there between both of them, and she's instantly in love with her sons. And even though Dean isn't facing Sam, isn't even looking at the camera, she can see he's smiling too. She can see he's happy. But it's more than that. It's in the lines of his body, his shoulders, the way he's holding himself, the way he's so… so unguarded. That's it isn't it? He looks comfortable and at home. All the defensive walls are down and his posture is completely uncontrived. He seems carefree and unburdened, and she realises suddenly that it's starkly opposed to the Dean she's so far encountered. That photo holds the most honest expression from him she's seen, and she can see in that face remnants of her four year old son, who was such a happy, loving boy that it filled your heart to bursting with love for him.

That's what's wrong with the world she's in now. That right there.

Yes, it's that John's dead. Yes, it's that she's fallen way behind the times. Yes, it's that there's a lot to get used to.

But all of that, all of it, it's nothing compared to what's missing in Dean when she looks at him, and it makes her heart ache to wonder what could have robbed her son of his innocence and joy so deeply.

She wants to keep staring at that picture forever, wants to memorise every line, every aspect, wants to infuse it with her very being, but she doesn't think she'll be able to handle the contrast when Dean walks in, because when he does she'll look up to face him and she knows she'll be met with the façade he wears around her, not the openness that this picture has caught, and it will break her heart. The contrast is too much, now that she can see how he should look compared to how he does, and she doesn't think she can confront it, doesn't think she could bear. Not quite yet.

So she moves on, rifles through until another photo stops her in her tracks.

She cannot, for the life of her, put this scene into any kind of context that makes sense.

It's another candid shot (and yes, she has begun to wonder who on earth is taking all these pictures), again of Sam and Dean of course, although Sam isn't fully in shot, because mainly it's a picture of Dean and a red head, another person who again, Mary doesn't recognise. So many people in Sam and Dean's world that she doesn't know.

But that's not why she can't get her head around this picture. No, her confusion stems from the way they look. Oh they're happy looking. Very happy looking. But their clothes, their… what would you call that? Costumes? Their surroundings? They're sat at what looks like a food laden banquet table, dressed from what she can see, as if from the medieval ages. Her brain works overtime trying to understand what could possibly be the context for this, and the only thing she can come up with is some sort of renaissance fair or fancy dress. Maybe Halloween? Surely not time travel…. No… wait, _really_? Time travel?

But then she realises she's missing the point of it. And in that same instant she realises it can't be time travel because both Dean and this girl are holding beer bottles.

Sam is out of focus for this one, he's in the periphery of the frame, looking away from them and smiling at someone or something beyond the photo's canvas. But Dean and this girl are clearly the centre of the photographer's vision, and with good cause too because they're both mesmerising in that moment. And they're both oblivious to the scrutiny of course, which makes it oh so much more intimate and real.

They're both leaning in towards each other, have their heads bowed close together, as if deep in discussion. Dean looks older, closer to the age he is now, and he looks tired. But it seems like a good tired. A contented sort of tired. And they both look so comfortable with each other that Mary knows immediately that they're in a happy little private bubble of their own.

The girl has her eyes on Dean and is talking through a grin, has her hand raised slightly above her head in an animated gesture, the movement of which has blurred the definition of her fingers, the motion probably illustrating something that only the two of them are privy to in that moment. And Dean, even though his head is slightly bowed and tilted downwards, obscuring his face a little, it's angled that way so that he can lean into her, and even though his eyes are on the beer bottle cradled in his hand instead of on her, Dean is clearly listening to every word she's saying. Is clearly completely absorbed and focused on her. And he's smiling, possibly even laughing, and it's a real smile, a real laugh. A completely honest one straight from the heart. It's so unguarded and genuine that it makes Mary smile all over again just by looking at him, without even realising she's doing it.

She can see in his smile, without a hint of hesitation, that whoever this girl is, Dean loves her. Completely and unreservedly, he loves her. It couldn't be anything less than love really, that would make him lower his defences to such an extent, that would make him be so relaxed and comfortable with someone other than Sam.

She's a mouse of a girl. Again very pretty, but equally unguarded, and Mary finds herself liking her immediately. Especially if Dean's expression is anything to go by. That lights a hopefulness in her, because she thinks if she asks to meet this girl, then Dean will undoubtedly relax around her, around this girl, and Mary will get a chance to see in real life some version of the Dean she sees in the picture she's holding. And that's a Dean she desperately needs to see more of.

And she's so engrossed in that picture, so enamoured by the moment it's captured, that she doesn't realise the shower had turned off a while ago and now Dean is back in the room, towel wrapped dangerously low around his midriff, hair tousled and damp. Whatever expression may have crossed his features at finding her there in his room, on his bed, she's missed it, because his face is semi-composed and controlled again when she looks up to greet him.

"Uh… mom?" And he seems surprised, seems uncomfortable, tugs the towel up a little. "Everything okay?" And he's pulling on a shirt, and she realises suddenly that he's embarrassed to be so nude in front of her, even if it is just from the torso up. So she averts her gaze, but not before she's seen the scars. Not before she's seen the tattoo. Some kind of anti-possession symbol? That's so smart. She wonders if Sam has one. She wonders if she should get one. And in the same breath as all of that her mothering instincts kick in, and she wants to call him up on having gotten tattooed in the first place.

But of course she can't. Again, she hasn't earned that right.

He's looking at her, expectantly, almost nervously, and she realises he'd asked her something. What was it?

"Yeah... Yeah, no everything's fine. I was just–"And she looks back down at the photograph in her hand because she can't remember for the life of her why she's there in his room, sat on his bed, going through his things.

But he seems to understand, surprises her when he comes to sit down next to her, even though she can sense how cautiously he does it. She dares to look at him again, to check if she's overstepped her mark, but he's not looking at her, is looking instead at the photograph in her hand and there's a smile on his face.

It's guarded, it's not quite as full of joy as she would have hoped, but the affection for this girl is abundantly clear, so she relaxes a bit, even if there does seem to be an impenetrably sad cloud that's suddenly settled around him at the sight of her. So maybe they're not together anymore? Maybe they broke up?

"Is this… Is she…. was she your girlfriend?" She ventures, and it's difficult and awkward for Mary to ask that of a son who up until a week ago, was just four years old, and again she worries that she's intruding.

But he laughs. He actually laughs, and she doesn't understand that at all, except that for a moment it's cleared the sadness from around him. He's shaking his head, still chuckling.

"No mom. I wasn't really Charlie's type… if you catch my drift."

And just like that, she's insulted, indignant at the thought that her son could be deemed not good enough by someone, and surprised at herself for the ferocity of her absurdly maternal defences. But Dean is giving her a pointed look, trying to convey something, his expression almost willing her to understand without him having to elaborate further.

What is it that she's missing, what was it that he'd said exactly? Not her type? Not her… And it hits her.

"Oh… Oh! Oh, I see."

And he smiles and nods, clearly relieved that's she's figured it out without him having to spell it out for her.

She looks back at the photo, casting a new gaze over it and assessing it with this new insight. There's still no denying Dean's fondness for her, his love.

"You two seem close…. I like her, who is she?" And when he doesn't respond, she looks up and is greeted by an expression of such endless sorrow, she can actually feel herself fracturing by the force with which it hits her. Oh he recovers adeptly enough, but in that split second she's seen enough to know, without even having to ask him to elaborate, that Charlie is dead. That Charlie is dead and that it broke his heart, that his heart is still broken. What she saw in that look tells her Dean knows that his heart will never get fixed. Not when it comes to this girl, to Charlie. "I'm sorry." She says softly. What else can she say?

He just shakes his head, as if to say it doesn't matter, but of course it does, deeply and painfully, it does. And it hurts her that he's clamed up again. Angers her that everywhere she goes around him, every step she takes, it's like the air itself is crisscrossed with unseen tripwires, and as if the ground around him is littered with landmines, and she can't seem to get close without setting them off. Keeps bringing up sorrows she doesn't know to avoid. Her mere presence seems to just end up hurting him, one way or another.

He's taken the picture from her, is looking at it with such a profound sense of loss that the sorrow of it swells up her heart till she feels it's pushing all the air out from her lungs, till she feels it will burst right through her ribcage. It makes her want to just run away from him, because she can't bear that she keeps hurting him with everything she uncovers. Can't bear that anytime she gets a glimpse of what's inside him, all she can see is layer upon layer of hurt.

"Charlie was…." He tries to say, composing himself so quickly, so well, that she just knows this kind of talk, this kind of hurt, it's all just old stomping grounds for him now. "Charlie was awesome. She was…" But he clearly doesn't know how to articulate whatever it is he feels, and he gives up trying in the end, the slight warmth that had briefly lit behind his eyes and crinkled his features into a sad reminiscent smile, born from memories she can't share, all dissolve away completely till there's nothing left. "She was just awesome. She deserved better."

And he shrugs, leaving it at that, defences fully up and welded shut. He puts the photo back in the box, doesn't even hesitate when he takes the box away from her and closes the lid, putting it away.

When he looks at her again it's with such a neutral, nonchalant expression she wants to burst out crying. She's not supposed to be this distant from her sons! This isn't how it's supposed to be! She's their mother, for Christ's sake! _Their mother_. And they're her baby boys. She's supposed to be able to protect them from things like this, they're supposed to be able to tell her about their nightmares and that's all they're supposed to be; nightmares. None of those nightmares are supposed to ever come true. The monsters under their beds aren't supposed to be real, and they're certainly not supposed be so used to the company of death, that they can recover their composure just like that. That they can just shrug it aside, put a lid on a box, put a lid on their sorrow, and face her like there's nothing wrong. Like it's none of her business, none of her concern. They're supposed to be able to open up to her, to trust her with everything, because she's their _mother_. _Their_ mother. She's the one they're supposed to turn _to_ not _from_ , and she's the one who should be able to fix all their woes and fears with a kiss and a cuddle and a bedtime story. Except this is all beyond her power to heal, she can't fix things like this with childish things like that, because they outgrew all that, outgrew _her_ , a long time ago. They've had decades to mourn and overcome her. She's had barely days to mourn her babies.

And in all that time they had without her, their monsters became real and they lived their nightmares a thousand times over and they did it all without her help. And her kisses and cuddles and stupid bedtime stories, everything she has in her maternal heart, a heart that's stuck as the mother of _children_ , not men, everything that she thought she would have years to indulge, everything that's pent up in that heart and is aching to be offered up to them, is all that she feels she _can_ offer up to them, it's all just pathetic and worthless and insulting in the face of the realty of their awful lives. All vestigial and powerless and counts for next to nothing in this hellish world.

And she can't do a damned thing to fix it because she can't catch up, can't adjust. Doesn't know how to be the mother of anything other than innocent babies. Doesn't know how to be the mother of men, of hunters. Of strangers.

And how can she possibly fix any of this, when he won't even trust her to let her in.

But she can't say any of this to him, because he's already moved away from her, is already looking at her with an impenetrable, unreachable expression that's clearly saying she needs to let it go. An expression that's put lightyears between them already.

So she stands, composes her face to hide everything she's feeling and puts on a smile, as bright and as false as the neons that light the bunker hallways, and she knows he sees right through it, even if he can't quite decipher what hides beneath.

"I was thinking we could have breakfast together? … Do you… Do you still like bacon?"

And he beams at her, actually beams at her, a dazzling smile so guileless that it throws her completely off guard.

Not what she was ever expecting from him, certainly not directed at her, and she doesn't understand what's happened, doesn't get any of it at all.

And she can't tell if it's real or fake, but she'll take it because it's so much easier to face than his other façade. She realises now that the smile on her own face is no longer fake, that he's still, somehow, managed to elicit the same kind of simple joy from things, to elicit that joy in her, that made him so adorable as a child.

He _is_ still her son, after all.

Right there, in that moment, right there, right in front of her, despite everything, despite all the layers of pain and hurt and defensiveness she sometimes thinks she'll never breech, he's still in there. Her beautiful innocent baby boy.

He's just…. Too painful to confront, more often than not. Because she hasn't built up that strength yet. Or that trust. She hasn't learnt how. But for now, she'll take what little she can get and she won't push for anything more.

"Right. Good. Bacon it is. I'll get it started… You'll wake your brother?"

And she barely catches his nod from the corner of her eye, because she's already out the door, already down the hall.

Because as much as that look made her love him, she can't bear the mask he'll wear again. Can't bear to set off another emotional landmine and watch the shrapnel embed itself in his heart. Can't bear to see the way he'll just shrug it aside, because he's oh so used to pain.

So, she realises, she simply can't stay.

Because she loves her baby boy, she really, truly does. And that's why she just needs to leave before she can break anything else in him. Before the memory of her boy is replaced utterly and completely by the sorrow of this man, a man who in front of her, doesn't even shed a tear about a girl she knows he loves.

After everything else she's already lost, she's just can't lose that, the memory of her son. She's not ready to let that go just yet.

Because that will be a sorrow she simply can't bear.

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 _The end._

 _Thank you for reading._


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